Petrichor
by WeatherWatch
Summary: Muggle London's not much better when it comes to colour, but at least there are no celebrations.


**A George-without-Fred. Solely because I saw a gif on tumblr that made me cry hysterically over our darling Freddie. **

**Disclaimer: I gain nothing but satisfaction and perchance a few kind reviews.**

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><p>"<strong>petrichor"<br>**_tears of hope run down my skin  
>tears for you that will not dry<br>_/_Remember When It Rained – Josh Groban_/

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><p><em>i.<em>

It smells of rain.

He's half a whole and, though his hair is a shock of vibrant red, it's as if the world's been painted in shades of grey with just a touch of melancholy but an overdose of despair.

He's sick of the grief-stricken looks that pass over the faces of his family every time they see him; sick of the reflection that stares out of the mirror, unable to make its own decisions; sick of pairs being reduced to singles; and so he leaves it all behind, if only for a day.

Out the front door, down the cobblestone path, through the rusted gate and into the open air; there's a crack like a gunshot and the space where George Weasley stood only moments ago is empty.

_ii._

Muggle London's not much better when it comes to colour – black seems to be the hue of choice – but at least there's no celebrations. The people in the streets are all far too busy with their own lives to see him, this solemn ginger tragedy, trying to keep on living. He's anonymous here, the red hair nothing more than a casual observation, his freckled face unfamiliar to the sea of muggles pressing against him as they go about their business.

He dodges umbrella-wielding mothers navigating prams and otherwise occupied businessmen who speak hurriedly into strange rectangular boxes, newspapers thrown over their head to guard against the drizzle. He takes lefts on a whim, turns right when a shop window take his fancy, and meanders through the city with an air of hopelessness and indifference that isn't quite enough to distinguish him from the multitudes.

Eventually, George finds his way into a back alley café, a small venue, but quaint, with an impressive customer turnover.

There isn't a lot of room, and free spaces are quickly taken up, but there is a two seater table by the window where a girl about his age is sitting, devouring a thick paperback with her eyes. She glances up opportunely and gives him a half smile through the frame of her dark locks.

"You can sit here, if you like," she offers. "I feel guilty taking up both seats when it's just me here."

"Thanks," he accepts softly, and settles in the chair to wait for his tea to arrive.

It's a companionable silence they fall into, with a soundtrack of coffee machine, mindless chatter and the rustle of turning pages.

_iii._

He's oblivious to her discreet glances, sipping his tea and staring at the rivulets of water coursing down the window; London town looks bleak in the rainy weather, he notes idly.

"Are you alright?"

He's not expecting conversation, so the words startle him into looking at her; there's concern on her face, but not pity, and the relief he feels upon that discovery surprises even him.

"I- yeah," he stammers. "I'm fine."

"Hardly," she scoffs, but gently. It's not meant unkindly. "Want to talk about it?"

He doesn't answer immediately, instead turning back to the raindrops on the window while he considers her strangely difficult question. She marks her page and takes the opportunity to study him.

"I don't know," he admits finally. "On one hand I don't even want to think about it, but on the other I can't just forget everything."

"Seems a bit of a lose-lose situation," she comments, fiddling with her empty latte glass.

"You can say that again."

"They say it's better to get things off your chest than let them bottle up," she proposes. "And I'm happy to listen."

George looks at her, his hazel eyes searching. "I lost a lot of people at once," he divulges gravely. "One of them was my best friend, my brother and my twin."

She remains silent. There is nothing to say.

Instead, with an empathy he appreciates, she reaches across the rickety wooden table and clasps his hand in hers.

_iv._

They leave the hum of the café together, hands still joined, and the girl leads George confidently through the throng of muggles; for the first time in months, he has an anchor. He doesn't linger on the casual intimacy they are sharing; two complete strangers linked tentatively at the hand.

Soft words are played back and forth between them – stories, memories and fears alike. She talks to _him_, helping him even as they move along the street, and he's grateful. She doesn't know Fred, or his legend, and George is careful not to mention magic during their conversation, and somehow, the more they speak, he feels weightlessness descend upon him.

"The dead are out of trouble now; it's the living you have to worry about," she advises as they near an intersection.

George can't help but smile. "Freddie'd be making mischief wherever he found himself, no fear of that."

The girl looks apologetically up at him as she joins the gathered muggles waiting to cross, her hand carefully untangled from his after one last gentle squeeze. "This is me," she says, indicating a building ahead that reaches up to the sky. "I've got to get back to work."

He nods in understanding.

"Thank you," he tells her, and it's undoubtedly the most sincere phrase to ever have left his mouth.

"There's nothing to thank me for," she refuses with a soft half-smile. "Maybe I'll see you 'round; that café's always good for self-reflection."

"Yeah, see you," George mimics reluctantly, transferring his hands into his jacket pockets. And then she's gone, washed away in the hustle and bustle of the crowd.

_v._

It smells of rain.

There's hardly any grass, just concrete and synthetics, but the smell, petrichor, permeates the air around him; George draws it in with deep, conscious pulls – somehow it's invigorating. In five minutes he won't be able to recall her face, but he feels the ghost of the girl's small hand still, sliding into his with blessed compassion, as he stands motionless in the centre of muggle London. He might find himself back here in coming weeks.

When he finally Apparates to Ottery St Catchpole, destination a little way out from the Burrow, the smell follows him, stronger for the rolling green fields and rainfall that the sky has threatened for the last two days, and George walks in silence, his head more lucid and his heart lighter, and he thinks, perhaps, healing _is_ possible, at the end of all things.

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><p><strong>End.<strong>

**Please, Read and Review responsibly to make an author's day – it's free!**

**On a slightly different note, dialogue is the bane of my life. Rararara! Y U No be **_**easy**_**?**


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